Fruition At Last
by LittleLongHairedOutlaw
Summary: *Based on a prompt that I've seen on Tumblr* John swings by Baker Street one evening all dressed up for a date, and some things unknown for so long are revealed.
1. Unexpected Revelations

It's late on a Friday evening. The sky outside the window of Baker Street has darkened into night, but Sherlock hasn't noticed. Stretched out on the couch since morning – without even bothering to change out of his bedclothes – he's been pondering the most recent case Mycroft has twisted his arm into looking into. (An information leak in MI6 isn't quite as amusing as he might have thought it would be, but he'd needed the distraction and Mycroft had provided him with one.)

What hauls him out of the recesses of his mind palace is the clicking of fingers beside his ear. He's able to ignore it at first, but soon it infests itself into his very thoughts. Opening his eyes, he's ready to growl at the interference, until he sees John standing there. Blinking against the sudden light in the room (wasn't it turned off when he'd settled in here?), he grumbles about the intrusion on his work.

John doesn't pay him any heed, hasn't paid attention to such complaining in years and finds that he's the better for it, too. But he hides the grin that wants to break out in spite of his nerves, not wanting to annoy Sherlock. "Do you want me to order Chinese?" he asks instead, hoping that the nerves don't bleed through his voice.

Sherlock frowns at him, confused by John's behaviour which doesn't match his appearance. "Aren't you eating on the date?" he asks, hoping the stab of jealousy in his chest isn't noticeable. (John's much more perceptive about these things than he used to give him credit for.) "You always used to eat on dates."

Now it's John's turn to frown. "What date?"

"You're clearly nervous about something. Add that to the new, well-fitted clothes, the very recently combed hair and the truly outrageous amount of aftershave and it's the only logical conclusion to reach. You've got a date." (All of these years, and saying that never gets any easier.)

John clears his throat, all of the lines he's thought up in the back of the cab deserting him in a moment. "That's . . . that's for you, actually."

Sherlock stares blankly at him – twice as confused now, and wondering if he's fallen asleep again while in his mind palace. That's the only explanation presenting itself, because John Watson has proven time and again to him with his girlfriends and his wife that while he may be bisexual (though that, too, is open for debate) he has absolutely no interest in Sherlock Holmes.

John shrugs and turns around. "Knew I shouldn't have said anything," he murmurs, walking towards the door. "Just forget about it."

Sherlock's on his feet before he realises it. "No, John! Wait. I – You . . . you really mean that?" He bites down on his lower lip to keep it from trembling.

John turns around, looking back at his best friend of so many years and nods. "Yeah. Yeah, of course I do."

"I never thought you felt that way."

A rueful smile. "I think everyone else realised it first."

Sherlock steps across the room and looks down on this man who's meant so much to him for so long. "I've wanted this for years." The words are hardly words, spoken so low.

"I should have realised it sooner. I was an idiot."

"We were both idiots." A chuckle erupts from Sherlock's chest, and he grins that toothy grin, before leaning in and pressing his lips to John's. Chaste though it is, it's the first kiss of many more to come. (And both finds that it comes much easier than they'd thought it would.)


	2. Quiet Presence Shared

In the end, John orders pizza. He manages to convince Sherlock to eat some too, and Sherlock is still too shocked at the reciprocation of his feelings to protest. Though Sherlock had intended to solve the case tonight, in the end the evening is spent on the sofa with John, stretched full-length, head in John's lap, ostensibly re-cataloguing his mind palace, really half-dozing with John carding fingers through his curls.

Neither speaks for the rest of the evening. There is no need for words, and no words that would suffice anyway. Instead they quietly stay there, John half-reading but in reality marvelling at getting to touch Sherlock like this, at getting to have him fall asleep across his legs - for it isn't long before he is asleep, breaths soft and even, hands falling away from their customary prayer position. And John - for his own part - doesn't have the heart to move, can't bear even the thought of disturbing Sherlock from this peace. So although he knows full well that his back will hate him in the morning, he allows himself to fall asleep too. (Oddly enough, though they never left the flat and hardly spoke a word, it's still been better than his first dates tend to go.)

It's Mrs Hudson who finds them, when she goes up in the morning with Sherlock's tea. Both are still asleep, though curled in on each other now so that it's difficult to tell where one ends and the other begins. She doesn't say a word, instead smiles knowingly and gets a blanket. (There's no use in letting the boys get cold, after all.)


End file.
